


the best, the dearest, the one I held nearest

by amatchforyourmadness



Series: le Roi de Camelot et Merlin d'Avalon [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur is very traumatised and he has no Merlin so you can imagine the kind of stress he is under., F/M, Hurt Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Hurt Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Merlin Dies (Merlin), Merlin of the Lake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24155779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amatchforyourmadness/pseuds/amatchforyourmadness
Summary: A year contains 365 days. Each day can be counted in 24 candle marks, so it's possible to burn 8760 marks in the span of the one year Merlin has been dead. Not a single one of them lessen the mournful air that envelops Camelot, and Arthur thinks it will take four times as many before anyone who has known the blue-eyed man with too large ears and too big of a heart can smile and mean it.(sequel to A Good Death)
Relationships: Freya/Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon
Series: le Roi de Camelot et Merlin d'Avalon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743187
Comments: 30
Kudos: 299





	the best, the dearest, the one I held nearest

**Author's Note:**

> Let's be clear, this is you guys' fault, because I had no plans on writing this. Nevertheless, Merthur angst!
> 
> This work is heavily inspired by the song 'The Tower' by Alana Henderson and if you want to listen to it while reading it, like I listened it writing this fic I highly recommend it.
> 
> Aight, let's go.

> “ When you've lost him feels like you've lost a limb
> 
> And when you can get another feels like 'why bother?'
> 
> When hindsight's review leaves you painted the fool
> 
> When cruel to be kind feels like cruel to be cruel
> 
> You climb up
> 
> To the top of the tower you descended
> 
> And don't come back down until you have mended
> 
> And regale your loved ones with how it all ended
> 
> And you will be fine
> 
> But for now,
> 
> it's gonna take time... ”
> 
> **— _The Tower by Alana Henderson_**

━━━━━━━━ ⸙ ━━━━━━━━

The day after his death, many come to the Lake of Avalon to see as Merlin's body, dressed in finery and tended to until the end by Gwaine and Gaius, is sent from the shore and burned by an arrow. They all watched it sink, to deliver the sorcerer to his final rest. Some say they saw the boy breath, others that the body never burned. Arthur saw a brunette girl rise from the water behind the flames and caress Merlin's face mournfully as the boat was pulled to the depths of the lake she had come from; but he doesn't share his tale, for he is not welcomed to do so.

━━━━━━━━ ⸙ ━━━━━━━━

No one blames him _, outloud_ , at least — with the exception of Gwaine who gives him a piece of his mind and the ruthlessness of his tongue for a round month before disappearing with the dawn and leaving knighthood, round tables and Camelot behind along with the memory of a friend who's lost forever — but he can see in their gazes when he pays attention to his surroundings. He sees it on the accusatory look of the servants and on the disappointed looks of his Knights, he sees it in the dimming smile on his queen's face and the everlasting sadness etched into Gaius' eyes. When he walks through the lower town, something even rarer now than it had ever been before, he hears the villagers quiet, feels the eyes glue to the ground and watches as the streets grow less crowded as he makes his way.

He knows, deep down, that his people still love him. Even those who adored Merlin, of which there are many and that Arthur never gave him credit for before, have this dutiful love to him that more than one old woman has seen fit to tell him was born from the praise his manservant would prattle on about him, since the times he was merely a prince.

He sinks into guilt until he feels numb to his core.

━━━━━━━━ ⸙ ━━━━━━━━

From time to time, when he is uneasy and when his heart is too heavy, he'll pace the grounds that surround the lake. Often times he's alone, and he talks to the water as if Merlin could hear him and respond, rise from the waters to call him a pest and to get his act together and go do whatever royal nonsense he had to do. He tells him he's not replaced him with any other manservants, for none could be as brilliantly terrible at their jobs as he had been. It's more common, however, for him to watch from afar those who had seeked Merlin's rest place before him.

Gwaine is there at least once a month, sat on the grass, barefoot feet in the water, chatting about taverns and women and the life of a friendless man with the waters much like Arthur does. He only ever stays one day, and he never crossed Camelot when he leaves to heavens knows where. There are plenty of children too, from the citadel, coming in groups so large he can hear the stampede of tiny feet, of boys and girls from 6 summers to 13 summers old, with toys and books on their hands, always ready to show how the plushie or the soldier he had gave them was faring, showing they had mastered tricks he had taught them and reading pages aloud to show they had not slacked off in their learning in his absence. Servants are always quiet, gentle offerings and softly whispered comments, a bittersweet smile and then they're gone — chambermaids offer him gossip, the cook will sometimes lay sweetmeats by the edge of the water, the quartermaster comes to complain, and, to his surprise, even _George_ comes once to tell jokes of brass and comments about his value as a servant.

The Knights spar by the lake twice a month, and usually make camp for the night there when they do so, telling brash stories and drinking mead until their tongues are loosened enough to trade tales about the deceased, fond memories so kind and absurd that their hearts ache.

He only sees Gaius there once, standing still, far from the waters, with worn out eyes and a back bowers under the weight of an unspeakable guilt; he's the only one to notice Arthur is there too, bowing and leaving without a word. Guinevere walks by daily, before supper, but does nothing but melancholically stare at the waters.

All of this happens only a month and a half into the loss.

━━━━━━━━ ⸙ ━━━━━━━━

Hunnith visits two months later, dressed in black from head to toe, not bothering to address him and going straight for Gaius' chambers. The King himself only figures out she's in Camelot after the letter he sent her when his Queen rushes along with the guards to the physician's chambers, where the woman wails and screams accusations that the other man doesn't even bother to defend himself against. Gwen hugs her and Merlin's mother clings to her, sobbing in utter misery as they fall to their knees, as she says: 'He was only a boy. He was my boy. You were supposed to look after him, you promised me'. Gaius is also crying, and guilt weighs once more over Arthur so heavy be could break the ground from under him and sink into the earth. The guards stand just outside of the door, and he can help but feel they're not so much keeping the grief-maddened woman from him as they're keeping him from her.

The following morning she does greet him, a shallow courtesy and formal words, her eyes trailed always on the ground, refusing to glance up at him. It's a new stab of pain altogether, and a far cry from the motherly affection with which she had accepted him back in Ealdor. He would hurt, but he killed her son. He cannot blame her for this, he wouldn't blame her if she wanted to slap him across his face.

She says she wants to visit the lake, to see where her son has been laid to rest. He and his Knights escort her to it and lay low, close to the trees as she sits by the lake's shore and stare at the waters until the day turns to night. They mount camp and she lays by the outskirts of it, back turned to his Knights and himself and Camelot too. They all sleep with heavy hearts and restless minds.

Arthur wakes sometime later to her voice talking softly to someone, and blinks sleepiness from his eyes to see she is no longer laid in camp, but knees-deep in the water, walking deeper into the lake with a tearful smile.

“Don't worry, Merlin. They won't notice, they are sleeping.” She says. “Don't even try to argue, young man, I'll go to you. I'll stay with you.”

“Hunnith!” He screams, getting to his feet and alerting all his knights at the same time, but she doesn't turn to him. The water is over the line of her waist, but still she walks on.

Arthur sprints into a run, walking into the lake himself, trying to reach her, but the waters are denser and they do not let him through as they let her. Still, he tries, he fights it and runs and tries to use his arms to move forward and hold her, he screams her name until the waters are shoulder-high, until her head disappears under the lake with a delighted smile and until Leon is dragging him out from the lake, screaming and kicking and sobbing like a little boy.

Shivering by the fire, he glares at the lake. It had taken two people from him already. One by his hand and the other willingly, but wasn't he at fault for bringing her here? For taking someone she held so dear?

By the morning, he can't help but think that, either way it is a kindness. They will be reunited at the lake, and he can scarcely think that Hunnith would want to spend her years with the knowledge that with every breath she drew, she was outliving her son.

━━━━━━━━ ⸙ ━━━━━━━━

Eight months later, Mithian is crowned Queen of her Kingdom and she rides to solidify alliances. She chooses Arthur to visit first in honour of their long forgotten courtship and the friendship that had been struck from it's inevitable end. Her entourage arrives in Camelot without her, set to prepare her rooms and to apologise to him for the rudeness, but she had made a detour to pay homage to a fallen friend. Arthur needs not to look for the traces of mud or the smell of the flowers that grow around Merlin's resting place when she arrives to greet him to know she went to Avalon. He sees the respect and friendliness she had left years ago feeling for him has shrunken, and she does not speak her mind to him as she did before.

He bears it, for he deserves it.

Sometimes he closes his eyes and feels the head of a man dying from bloodloss against his chest as he clings to their weakening body, as he smiled like nothing else mattered but for Arthur's pulse.

In those nights, he leaves his bed and his Queen, silent as a ghost, and walks through the halls and down the stairs to the physician's chambers, walking past a sleeping Gaius and creeping on the room that once was Merlin's. He lays in the bed he must have laid a thousand times, and stares at the ceiling. The tears leave his eyes just as quietly.

Merlin was good, utterly and undeniably good, therefore magic could be good.

Arthur doesn't sleep.

━━━━━━━━ ⸙ ━━━━━━━━

Ten months later, Camelot welcomes the Druids in the spirit of the new peace stricken between them, and of the repeal of the magic ban, as well as the plans to conjointly write laws to regulate it's use. They are deferent to him, respectful and amiable, but their eyes wander sometimes, as if expecting a shadow that wasn't there. The Druids tell him of the prophecy, of his role as Once and Future King and his Destiny, and they speak of a powerful sorcerer, destined to protect and aid him, a man by the name of _Emrys_. They say they never expected him to be slain, that he was supposedly immortal. Their leader inspects Arthur's sword with his approval and mournfully informs him the blade of Excalibur is enchanted with Emrys' — _Merlin's_ — magic.

“He's probably crafted it to protect you, my Lord. So you might have a chance against the magical threats no mortal blade could strike.”

_He had made it to protect Arthur and had been killed with it._

Arthur excuses himself from the room for a moment, and barely manages to leave the room when he retches up all he had eaten, shaking with disgust and shame, dry heaving for self control.

His _sword_ was _magic_ . _Merlin_ had _made_ it. _For him._ And he had killed him with it. Merlin had give him everything and he had ran him through for it.

_He had killed him._

_Oh, God, he had killed Merlin._

He vomits again.

━━━━━━━━ ⸙ ━━━━━━━━

Eleven months later the laws are approved and magic is free and legal once more. He leads a wealthy, vast kingdom, and avoids wars unless it's a necessity. Every war he fights, his kingdom grows larger and his fame spreads.

Twice as many people come to the lake to see the return of a High Priestess of the Old Religion to the Isle of the Blessed.

Ganeida is about the age Merlin would have been now, give and take a year. Her hair is deep black and her eyes are a greyish colour that hints of blue, her power is one of the greatest to have survived the purge and the wars, and she walks to towards the lake with the pride of her people draped around her shoulders, like a Queen reclaiming her throne. When she's two steps from entering the lake, a girl rises from it. She had brown hair and a kind face, and is dressed with a familiar dress, that Arthur thinks he saw Merlin carry through the halls years ago.

“I am Freya, lady of this lake, appointed it's guardian by Emrys himself.” The girl states in guise of introduction, and an instant rush of respect and reverence takes over those who watch the scene, Arthur included. Because _Merlin_ had chosen her. She lays her kind gaze upon the witch that stands closer to her shore. “Who comes, seeking to cross the waters of Avalon into the Isle?”

Ganeida swallows her momentarily anxiety and raises her chin.

“I do.”

“State your name, so your brothers and sisters and those who lived there before you may know their successor.”

“Ganeida, my Lady, High Priestess of the Old Religion.”

The brunette smiles then, waving a hand and bringing from the depths of the water a boat, made of luxurious wood and with golden details along it's sides. Arthur and his court hold his breath upon recognising it for what it was — Merlin's funeral boat.

“You're welcome to cross Ganeida of the Old Religion.”

Ganeida sits upon the boat, smiling and tearful, druids and the magical community too way have gone teary eyed at the return to magic where it always belonged. They gasp then, shocked and delighted when a pale hand breaks the water and holds onto the rope on the edge of the boat, pulling her forwards and cross the lake. Ganaheida starts weeping of joy, and another hand raises to hold her hand high as if presenting her to the Isle.

The feast that follows, in honour of the restoring of Magic to the kingdom is one of the largest in Camelot's history. Arthur watches, proud and happy, holding Gwen's hand tight in his as she too smiles down at the scene, courtiers and sorcerers laughing and talking and mingling, drinking absurd amounts of watered down wine until they're all too drunk to do anything but laugh, delightedly. In the citadel below, the celebration is also raging, with smallfolk talking excitedly with breaths that stink of mead as folk music plays and they hop and sway to it's tune.

They all tell the tale of King Arthur of Camelot, who had killed his other half on a battlefield years ago and was now building a great kingdom in his honour.

Arthur didn't bother to correct any of it.

━━━━━━━━ ⸙ ━━━━━━━━

It's when 8760 marks have burned, 365 days have passed and one year has rounded on his loss that Arthur finally walks towards the lake, eyes fixed on the Isle of the Blessed.

Freya waits for him, already on top of the waters, serene and kind, but her eyes have an underlying of steel and accusation that wasn't there when she regarded Ganeida months ago. Yet, she was appointed by Merlin to be Lady of the Lake, and no doubt she held loyalty and affection for the man. And here he stood, his killer, asking for passage through her waters.

“Arthur Pendragon of Camelot." She greets. “Why do you wish to cross my waters?”

“My Lady, I mean to meet with Lady Ganeida. Would you grant me passage?”

The woman does not reply, but Merlin's funeral boat rises from the water. His breath gets stuck once more on his throat and he feels her hard gaze on him as he moves slowly to it, whispering his thanks, and sits onto it half expecting to burn on it.

He scrambles back in shock at the sight of a pale, long hand emerging from the water to hold onto the rope tied to the boat. At his brusque reactions, the hand, equally spooked, retreats into the lake as well.

“No, wait!” Arthur calls, leaning over the edge of the boat to look “I'm sorry, you just scared me, that's all. Could… Could you take me to the Isle?”

The hand returns, holds onto the rope, and guides him through the waters under the watchful eye of Freya.

━━━━━━━━ ⸙ ━━━━━━━━

“You have not come only for a formality.” Ganeida says, after near 25 minutes of pleasentries being exchanged. “You have come for a dead man. The one you killed.”

Arthur cannot deny.

“I just want to talk to him once.” He says, palms turned towards her in a show that he's harmless, he means no ill. “To apologize. Try to understand.”

“I'd help if I could, King Arthur of Camelot, but Emrys does not rest in the Isle of the Blessed.”

“But I crossed the lake, he wanted to be burned here.”

“Avalon and the Isle are not one.” She clarifies, gesturing for him to follow her to the window, glancing at it's view of the lake, trees and even Camelot, far away in the horizon. “Have the waters rejected you, or have you found help amidst them?”

“I was led here, much like you.”

The sorceress smiles, shrewd and knowing, laying a hand on his shoulder as she tilts her head towards the lake below.

“Emrys dwells in the waters, with our brothers and sisters, alongside the lady he gifted the lake years ago."

The world stops for a moment. Of course, _of course_. Freya, and the boat and the way Ganeida had cried in joy when the hands had risen from the waters to guide her, the delight in the face of all the magic users who saw such a scene.

Merlin was in the lake.

He turns numbly to look down to where the brunette girl dressed in a court dress is sat upon the waters, looking up at the Isle where he and the priestess stand anxiously, a hand underwater holding tight onto something— someone.

If the Priestess says something else, Ganeida's words are lost on him, because all he can hear is the heavy thumping of his heart.

It feels like it could burst.

_Merlin._

  
━━━━━━━━ ⸙ ━━━━━━━━

“Have you been granted what you came for, King Arthur of Camelot?” The Lady of the Lake — Freya — asks, standing up and letting go from the pale bony hand she had been holding, the hand that had guided him to the Isle, the hand that had showed Ganeida to her rightful place and that had held Hunnith's shoulders, now sinking into the water unseen.

“I have paid my respects to the High Priestess and apologized for not correcting sooner the error of my father's ways.”

“And was that what you wanted?" Freya asks, knowingly.

“That was my duty. What I wanted was to speak with someone Lady Ganeida says resides in your waters.”

“I do not own the waters, for Avalon is not my realm nor has it a ruler.” She says, slightly reproachful, but kind nevertheless. Her hand moves to indicate the expanse of the body of water that surrounds them. “I do not own those who rest here nor can I order them. Even if I could, I could not order Emrys to anything he did not wish.“ Her hand then rests above her collarbone, and she bows her head to him. “I will leave you to his care, and if either he wants to grant your wish or not I leave also to his discretion."

With that, Freya sinks into the water calmly, head still bowed, and leaves him alone at the shore of the Isle, much like Ganeida did.

Arthur sits on the boat, the one he had ordered to be crafted overnight and that he had wept miserably when his best friend's lifeless body had been laid on, and waits, as hopeful as he dares to be. After quite a lot of waiting, in which anxiety and fear start to eat him alive from the inside out, the pale hand with long thin fingers rises once more from the water to hold onto the rope, but this time Arthur rushes forward to hold it instead.

“Merlin?" He calls, voice breaking at the beloved name and teary-eyed. The hand is cold as nothing else, but he could not expect it to be warm. He could hardly have expected there to be a hand at all. He had seen his body burn. He inspects the water below for the known face, but he can only see up until someone's forearm before the blue depths hide all rest from view. “Is that you?" 

The hand hesitates, as if it meant to pull away, but instead it moves towards his face, and cold digits caress his cheek gently, wiping the tears Arthur didn't even know he was shedding. The king sobs in happiness, holding onto the wrist with both hands and turning his face into the rough palm of his manservant, the wizard of prophecy, his protector, and smiles down into the waters in utter happiness. His awe only grows when the other hand breaks the water, holding onto the edge of the boat and moving to pull himself up.

Arthur holds his breath, gripping his arm in anxious anticipation, until the deep blue of the lake gives way to the first inkling of a pale face, and blue eyes, brighter than the water, lock gaze with his. If Arthur was crying before, he's downright weeping now, one hand leaving his wrist to reach down into the water as his face starts to come into view, and under the cold water, his palm meets Merlin's cheek, and Merlin breaks water, grinning with joy and fondness at his King, rising until they're both crying, foreheads pressed against the other's, not daring to close his eyes.

“Stupid.” He whispers, kissing his left cheek. “Moron.” He sobs, kissing his right cheek. “You never told me." Arthur accuses, kissing his forehead, burrowing his face against his dark mop of hair. “How could you never tell me?”

A soft chuckle follows, and _oh God,_ it's _Merlin's_ voice, it's _his_ laugh.

“I have missed you too, prat.”

He shakes his head, laughing in-between tears, holding his hands, his face, his shoulder, his arms, making sure he was real and letting the happiness pour from him in waves. He was there, he was _alive_. Arthur moves to pull him up from the lake and into the boat but Merlin moves away, to his confusion and hurt.

“I can't go with you, Arthur. I am not alive, I can't go to the world of the living" Arthur's eyes close as if he has been punched in the gut, and his hand slides from Merlin's shoulder to his chest and down the line until he feels the still healing wound he had cause him. "Hey, no, no— Arthur, don't guilt yourself—”

“I killed you. You saved my life time and time again and I killed you.”

“I forgive you.” He says, so easily and inherently, as if he had forgiven him long before he asked for his forgiveness. As if he had forgiven Arthur the moment he had ran him through with the blade, and Arthur cried more knowing that be probably did. Both of Merlin's ice cold hands hold his face gently, making him look at him. “Don't you know I would forgive you anything, you clotpole?” He says, smiling brightly as if nothing had happened, as if he had not been wronged in any moment, as if he wasn't dead because of the man he was running his fingers through his hair so gently. “One day, many years from now, you'll die. And they will bring you to the lake, bring you to me. And I'll tell you all you want, I'll give you all the answers for all your questions, and when you rise again, I'll go with you. But while I can't follow you, please… Please, live well for me. Be the king I always believed you'd be."

Arthur leans towards the water and Merlin rises for the sky.

They kiss and the world is just a King in a boat who will spend his life building a golden, magnificent kingdom worthy of being united in honour of the warlock from a lake to which he craves to return.


End file.
